


Ad Ludum Gladiatorium

by quills_at_dawn



Series: Witcher Shorts [3]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, Gladiators, M/M, Rare Pairings, hashtag kingneigher
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-12 08:05:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19942885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quills_at_dawn/pseuds/quills_at_dawn
Summary: Post TW3, Letho is captured and brought back to Nilfgaard where he is now part of the imperial gladiatorial stable.One evening a certain Nilfgaardian general seeks an assignation...





	Ad Ludum Gladiatorium

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dravenxiv](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dravenxiv/gifts).
  * Inspired by [[Gifset] Letho & Morvran](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19966921) by [Dravenxiv](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dravenxiv/pseuds/Dravenxiv). 



> What can I say about this? It was supposed to be a quick PWP and now it's... I don't even know what. It's dark and filthy, utterly indefensible and I had a lot of fun writing it.
> 
> However, **PLEASE HEED THE WARNINGS**.  
> There _is_ non-con, there are knives, blood, sex aids, and a bunch of other stuff in quantities too small to warrant tags but they are there so please proceed with caution.
> 
> **Notes:**
> 
> The title means both "gladiator games" and "school of gladiators". 
> 
> _Damnatio ad ludum gladiatorium_ was to be condemned to life as a gladiator, the punishment applied to Letho. 
> 
> A _dimachaerus_ was a type of gladiator who fought with two swords.
> 
> Also, Trope Bingo square: Aphrodisiacs

**AD LUDUM GLADIATORIUM**

Striding into the Minotaur’s quarters, the imperial stablemaster went to the wall where dozens of silk tassels dotted the stone wall, trophies from the gladiator’s many victories. The famous horned helmet that had given the Minotaur his name and the only face the adoring public knew him by held place of honour among them. It would have looked even more impressive with the fearsome pair of scimitars he fought with and whose shape recalled that of the helmet’s horns, but those were kept under lock and key in the weapons lockers and only handed out for training and as the Minotaur stepped out into the arena.

“For today’s fight,” the stablemaster announced, hanging up the tassel he’d brought.

The Minotaur grunted, stretched face down on a cushioned table, wearing only the network of scars on his skin. He’d been bathed and had the blood from said fight washed off him, the wounds and injuries sustained had been tended, he’d been anointed in scented oil and was now being given his evening massage — one of the privileges he’d been granted as the empire’s best _dimachaerus_ and currently the most valuable fighter in the emperor’s stable of gladiators.

It was also, in part, why he’d been granted his own quarters. Another reason being that he’d killed one roommate already and was as likely as not to kill another if provoked.

The stablemaster looked over the prone form with trepidation.

The Minotaur was a beast of a man — taller even than the Impera who were chosen for their size. A bulk that made it clear that he was more than just human.

_A witcher._

Only a handful of the stable staff knew even this much of the Minotaur’s true identity, and only the stablemaster had been trusted with his name — Letho of Gulet, of the School of the Viper, one of the last of his kind, the last of his school.

“Who am I fighting tomorrow?” the witcher asked idly then huffed when the hands kneading his muscles found a knot in them.

“Not who. _What_ ,” the stablemaster clarified.

By now the Minotaur was so notoriously dangerous that no amount of coin and rewards could persuade the other stable masters and owners to risk their elite fighters against him. The frequency of these immensely popular one-on-one combats had been watered down with fights against teams of low-value convicts, starving lions, shaelmaars, and now— 

“A slyzard.” 

The scar-veined head moved and the stablemaster found himself pinned by the bright amber gaze.

“There are ways of killing me that don’t put the entire city in danger.”

“The arena and the public will have their protections. And you will be allowed the use of some of your powers,” the stablemaster countered, saw the wild gleam in the serpentine gaze, and quickly added, “Within reason.”

The eyes settled into an ember glower but the stablemaster knew better than to put any trust in that. This was the other reason the Minotaur had his own quarters. Protections and spells had been woven into the walls to further negate the witcher’s strength and powers.

“And my swords?”

“Perhaps,” the stablemaster said, steeling himself to go one, “But there’s something else. You’ve been booked for an assignation. Tonight.”

“An assignation?” Letho ground out in amusement, looking away, “Thought I wasn’t available for that kind of thing.”

“No, but this is a special request.”

“Must have cost quite a bit of coin,” Letho derided.

“More than just coin. Can you perform?”

Letho barked out a laugh.

“Depends on the lady. But no, I’m tired. I refuse.”

“Refusal is not an option. I ask again, can you perform?”

Letho swung his gaze back to the stablemaster, openly hostile.

“No.”

A thin chill like the winter wind at Kaer Morhen cut across the back of Letho’s neck, a numbness, then all his strength left him. A familiar feeling, they’d used it before. Letho didn’t know how it worked — whether it required a spellcaster or whether someone just pressed a button — he just knew that it did work, very effectively. Whatever they’d implanted at the back of his neck had been only the first of many spells and marks they’d put on him to control him. This disabled him physically, the others siphoned off his magic.

“Is this what your client wants?” he gritted out, “A hollow victory?”

“It is not. For the last time, will you perform?”

“No!” he snarled.

A sound of impatience from the stablemaster then Letho felt his cheeks being parted and a sphere of some kind was pushed into him, promptly bursting into oily liquid. To a witcher it was barely discomfort but he gritted his teeth at the indignity then hissed at the sudden burn.

_Ginger._

_Ploughing Nilfgaardian degenerates._

“You’re not to harm our guest,” the stablemaster went on sternly, “Behave, do as you’re told, perform to satisfaction, and tomorrow you will have your signs and your swords.”

Letho growled in answer, more concerned with the fact that he was being fitted with a cock ring. Infuriated by his own powerlessness but also by the fact that after weeks, months, without sexual contact, his cock jumped in interest at even these small ministrations. He bit back a snarl when something small, smooth and cold was inserted into his sensitive slit.

“Is that understood?”

“Fine!” Letho barked, his blood already beginning to roil under the effect of the aphrodisiac they’d administered with the ginger.

He continued to breathe heavily, helpless under the weight of his own unresisting body, while the stablemaster and various slaves left his quarters and it was only when they were safely out that he felt another flash of cold at his neck and his strength returned.

He stood and found the stablemaster just beyond the bars of the door.

“Take it as an opportunity to increase the Minotaur’s reputation. There’s no telling where it will lead you.”

Letho grunted and turned his back on the man.

One evening around the campfire, what now seemed like another lifetime ago, Serritt had complained that Emhyr owned them, and Letho had since had repeated occasions to reflect that Nilfgaard had thoroughly ploughed them every which way possible. Now it seemed that it had found yet another way.

Letho had had myriad occasions to die. He’d evaded detection by Foltest’s best bloodhound, had talked Geralt into sparing him, had ducked and dived and passed himself off for dead, and since his capture had survived countless rounds in the arena. It would have been so easy for him to die, especially when he had precious little to live for, but even those who underestimated him owned that he was made of grit as well as brawn. It simply was not in his nature to give up and his whole being was galvanised by the thought of holding his swords again and feeling the swell and release of magic.

He picked up the soft leather mask he usually wore under his helmet and was pulling it on when he heard the door creak open then shut.

He turned, still fastening the mask at the back, but stopped dead, ripped the mask from his face and flung it onto the ground in disgust when he recognised the man before him. A man who knew exactly who he was, who had stood behind Emhyr var Emreis that day in the cells when the emperor of Nilfgaard had bought his help with a traitorous lie.

“Morvran Voorhis,” he spat.

“ _General_ Morvran Voorhis, although I will accept Lord Voorhis if you prefer it,” the young general corrected genially, openly raking his appreciative gaze over him.

Letho said nothing, his eyes aflame with hatred in the low light.

He’d last seen Voorhis in the full armoured regalia of the Alba division he commanded, but this time, and despite his stated preference, the gold-thread embroidered tunic he wore, simply belted and that fell down to his ankles and was slit up to the thighs, of the type commonly worn by wealthy Nilfgaardians, spoke more of the lord than the general.

“I have been admiring you in the Games,” the general said, turning to the wall to admire the helmet and trophies, “Many have. Many would give much to be where I am now.”

No doubt, Letho thought darkly. Nilfgaardians had bizarre tastes and he’d often seen the tamer of his fellow gladiators led away to entertain patrons with deep pockets who wanted the thrill of danger with none of the risk.

“Heard this sort of thing isn’t allowed. With me.”

“Ordinarily it is not,” Voorhis looked at him over his shoulder, conspiratorial, “His Imperial Majesty was reluctant to allow it but did finally grant me leave to have my way. As reward for my part in our victory in the North.”

A victory they both knew Letho had had a heavy hand in.

As Letho’s anger swelled so did his magic, though the latter immediately drained away into the dimeritium bands on his wrists, the stones on them glowing softly with stored magic. The rage, however, stayed, throbbing in his veins.

Voorhis watched in amusement.

“Surely you realise there is no point? All the safeguards are in place.”

“Still worth a shot. You wouldn’t be here if there wasn’t some risk.”

Morvran smiled and took a few measured steps towards the gladiator.

Morvran Voorhis was tall but the witcher towered over him, not just tall but impossibly broad, scar-crossed and muscle-bound, huge and hulking, as bestial as his professional name suggested. Morvran’s gaze went from the incandescent viperine eyes to the heavy shoulder muscles, the bulging biceps and powerful chest muscles tapering down to a drum-taut stomach quadrilled by shadowed indents. His connoisseur’s eye lingered on the dimpled arse cheeks, the iron-strong thighs, the thick cock and heavy balls that hung between them.

The witcher was made of curves and veins all straining out of their moorings.

“Like what you see? Is the Minotaur up to your standards, your lordship?”

“I am better known for my judgment of horses than cattle but yes, most pleasing,” Morvran agreed, his speculative gaze still on Letho’s groin.

Letho snorted.

“Want to check my teeth too?”

Morvran allowed himself a ghost of a smile.

“As you say, I did come for excitement but that would be reckless… Although…” he paused, his voice taking on an edge, “On your knees, Letho.”

Letho froze at hearing his name spoken for the first time in weeks, months, then, without thinking, obeyed, sinking to his knees.

Voorhis said nothing but his nostrils flared slightly and a flush of colour crept along his cheekbones.

He touched the tip of a toe to Letho’s thick member and when a rush of blood prompted a response, the thin gold chain that secured the plug to the ring glittered. 

Morvran drew back his foot then reached out to trace one of the scars cracked across Letho’s skull with his fingertips

“They say witchers do not feel pain like other humans,” he murmured, following a trail down behind an ear, to the vein throbbing in Letho’s neck, “That it gives you pleasure.”

He paused, fingers coming to rest on the pulse of life in the hollow between Letho’s collarbones.

“I thought to test it. That and your legendary stamina.”

“Is that what you want? To plough me like a bitch or a heifer?” Letho scorned.

“I had thought to ride you like a stallion but since you offer…” he stepped away, pulled up the front panel of his tunic and tucked the end into his knife belt with practiced elegance, “Up. Bend over.”

Letho’s entire body tensed with the instinct to refuse but when his energy swelled and ebbed within him again he was reminded of the prize. There would be no pain, the idea that this lily-white boy could inflict it was laughable. And the reward — to hold his swords again, to feel the release of power and all the pent up rage and frustration he had bottled in.

He bent over the massage table and waited.

Movran approached and ran his hands over the broad back, feeling the muscles ripple beneath his palms, smoothing over the rips and puckers in the skin, relishing the taut arse.

“Hold yourself open.”

Letho gritted his teeth but obeyed.

He felt a prod at his entrance and forced himself to relax. Even so, it had been a long time and though the slow stretch didn’t hurt, he did feel the burn.

“Well, Letho?” the general’s murmured question swept up along his spine, “Which is it? Pleasure or pain?”

Letho said nothing, fighting the urge to push back as Voorhis pushed in slowly, so slowly, determined to make him feel it. He nearly jumped when their knuckles brushed together.

“And what about the humiliation? Pleasure or pain?”

Letho bit his lip and felt his own traitorous body draw the head in. An obscene squelch as the general pushed into the aphrodisiac Letho had been administered.

Letho grunted as Voorhis sank in to the hilt in one controlled thrust then smirked in grim satisfaction when he heard a sharp hiss.

“Enjoying the ginger, your lordship?”

“It is unexpected,” the general said in strangled tones, “But not wholly unpleasant.”

Even so he stilled a moment and they panted together. Letho had adjusted to the burn of the ginger but it had been reignited by the cock inside him.

Morvran started to move again and a soft moan soon escaped him, while Letho had his forehead pressed to the cushions, still biting his lip to keep from howling as the Nilfgaardian mounted him.

Voorhis picked up the pace, holding onto Letho’s hips as he fell into a quick, comfortable rhythm.

Letho took it, telling himself it was out of rage that he found himself drenched in cold sweat, fighting the growing pressure in his balls.

“Well?” Morvran prompted again through gritted teeth.

When he got no answer he gripped the edges of the table and thrust harder, deeper, sweat beading on his forehead, a satisfied smile on his face at the burn building in his lower back.

Letho snarled and braced himself against the hammering, determined not to answer the question, determined to not even give Voorhis the satisfaction of seeing him consider it.

The burn, however, was harder to ignore, as was the stiff cock within him, pushing ever deeper, forcing him bend and to give way, shaping him to suit itself. A bead of sweat ran down the side of his neck and as he stared at the cushions, Letho admitted to himself that the humiliation too was harder to ignore.

Harder too to ignore the sweat breaking out over his brow, his shoulders, in the cleft between his cheeks that he was still holding apart, and when Morvran leaned over, slamming harder into him, Letho's fingers slipped and he too gripped the table, pushing back, bearing down on the general with every muscle he had.

Letho snarled as Morvran bit his shoulder hard and discharged himself inside him, incensed by the successive spurts of heat and even more so by the searing sun-hot pressure in his balls and in his cock that he could not relieve.

Panting, Morvran licked the blood from the bite.

“You still have not told me,” he noted quietly, “Pleasure or pain?”

“Fuck you,” Letho gritted out and was answered by an amused sound and Morvran sucking on the bleeding wound before standing.

“All in good time.”

Voorhis moved away and Letho stood and turned, his muscles stiff and screaming from the strain they’d been under.

The general stood, cool and collected though his breathing had not quite evened and the roots of his blond hair had dampened to sand.

Letho, meanwhile, was panting, massive chest heaving, the light and shadow of his muscles highlighted by the sheen of sweat that coated his magnificent body.

Morvran’s gaze dropped to the fully erect member, veined and straining purple, dark and angry against the delicate line of twinkling gold.

He reached out and toyed with the chain, the slight tug of it dragged a rumbling groan from the witcher. Morvran continued to finger the chain, working his way up it to the swollen head, letting his fingers brush against it lightly.

“How long has it been, Letho, since someone touched you like this? How long since you last sank into another’s heat?”

Weeks, months, and the smug bastard knew it.

Slowly, excruciatingly, Morvran Voorhis pulled on the chain, drawing the plug out, pale gaze locked with the flaming amber one. Letho gripped the table edge so hard his knuckles cracked but even so he couldn’t quite bite back a snarl when the golden plug popped free. He gulped for air, dizzy with unrequited need, breathless with frustration and resentment.

Gaze now trained on the engorged member, Morvran Voorhis pulled a vial of oil from his belt and handed it to the witcher.

“See to yourself.”

And so Letho fisted oil onto his own cock under the general’s close scrutiny, painfully aware of the throb of blood in it from within and without.

Suddenly impatient, Morvan Voorhis stepped forward to splay a hand over the hard pectorals and pushed. Letho hauled himself onto the table, lay back and watched — scornfully, avidly — as Voorhis climbed onto the table easily then straddled him, settling low on his hips and grinding against him a moment before reaching between his legs to grip Letho’s erection and guide himself onto it slowly.

The general had prepared himself, he was slick and ready, and he’d obviously done this before but even so Letho’s girth took its toll on him and Letho watched in sharp, icy satisfaction as Morvran bit his lip, eyes closed and head thrown back, and fought the urge to slam up into him.

Morvran’s eyes opened and they locked gazes as Letho’s head slipped past the tight ring of muscle.

Letho waited, paralysed, all his focus on the wet heat of Voorhis’ body as he sank deeper onto his aching cock.

“How is this?” Morvran asked, breathless, once he’d seated himself, “Does this please you? Or does it pain you be used in this way?”

He reached back to give Letho’s bursting ball sack a squeeze then began to roll his hips more intently.

Letho gripped the pale thighs in surprise.

He had expected the boy to be weak and soft from never doing anything more arduous than occasionally donning armour, but Morvran had a rider’s thighs and the same control through his legs, his hips, his stomach, and he was riding him with intent and confidence.

Morvran took him deeper, grinding down onto him, every spasm in his body bringing Letho closer to madness and he gripped the hips, the arse, bruising the pale flesh, feeling it clench and release with each hard roll.

“How does it feel after going so long without?” Morvran gasped, “Which is it, Letho? Pleasure or pain?”

Morvran leant lower to grip the table and rode Letho harder, demanding and vicious, whole body clenching tightly around the witcher from within and without.

“Come on, Letho,” he ground out imperiously, “Plough me!”

Mindless with need and lust, Letho gripped him tighter and thrust up hard. Desperation as they fought to find a rhythm, urgency when they found it.

Letho stared up at the general and a chill of fear cut through the raw red need.

That day in the cells he’d taken Voorhis for a milksop, overbred and under-baked. Later he’d heard and disregarded rumours that Voorhis had seduced the La Vallette woman, once Foltest’s conquest. He now saw, too late, that he was not the emperor’s advisor for nothing. He understood now, too late, why Geralt hadn’t wanted him at Kaer Morhen.

He’d underestimated this Nilfgaardian general with silk-soft thighs that had never known live steel, and looking up into the elusive eyes— never quite green nor quite blue, clear as spring water — Letho remembered Morvran’s reputation as a strategist and realised that his battle steel was to be found elsewhere, in the razor-sharp mind hidden behind those mild eyes.

Because he hated this man who was as responsible as Emhyr himself for the ruin of his life and yet here he was, doing his bidding, ploughing him like he’d waited all his life to do nothing else.

Morvran reached again to touch his balls then trailed his fingers up to the base of his cock, brushing over the cock ring.

“Last time, Letho,” he murmured with a voice like an ice-forged blade, “ Pleasure or pain?”

Nearly blind with denial, Letho gritted his teeth and fought back.

“Pain!”

Eyes hardening, Morvran gripped the table and drove him harder, clenching and riding him until he came with a harsh cry.

He sat atop the vanquished witcher, dragging ragged breath after breath into his ravaged lungs as he weathered the aftershocks of pleasure that shook him.

The look he gave Letho was unreadable but when he manoeuvred himself back onto the ground he was unsteady on his feet.

When Letho stood and moved away, Morvran perched against the edge of the table, gathering himself.

Letho swept back, tipped the general onto the table and pulled his knees up as he leant over him, and in an instant the dagger Morvran Voorhis habitually kept on his belt was between them, the razor-thin blade at Letho’s throat as Morvran looked up at him cooly, pale eyes clear as glass.

They stared and stared with barely a breath shared between them, then Letho leant in slowly, felt the icy bite of the blade and so revelled in it that he could almost taste the sharp copper and poison of his own blood when he raked his tongue over the Nilfgaardian general’s mouth.

“Pleasure,” he said roughly, pulling away just an inch, “Will you come back?”

Morvran considered, unconsciously wetting his lips where Letho had licked them, a line of high colour along his cheekbones.

“If His Majesty allows it. I suspect he will be more inclined to do so if we come out of this encounter unscathed.”

Another long stare then Morvran shifted the blood-wet blade away from Letho’s throat. Barely lifting his gaze from the general, Letho licked his own rich ichor from it slowly and when they next kissedMorvran tasted it too.

Morvran threw his head back as Letho pushed into him, hissing at the raw burn but wrapping his strong thighs around the lean, hard waist, drawing him in deeper. He felt the clench of the powerful muscles as Letho drove into him, slow and deliberate, infuriatingly controlled.

Letho bracketed the blonde head in his hands and locked eyes with the lordling. He could crush Morvran’s skull with ease and they both knew it. Letho let his fingers curl into Morvran’s scalp, his hard grip perfectly calibrated to stay just this side of bodily harm.

He kissed the general hard, shoving his tongue deep into his mouth, plundering it, and began to snap his hips harder. He swallowed up Morvran’s moan of pleasure, gripped his shoulder with one hand and the table with the other, and started to fuck him in earnest, earning himself the desperate rake of blunt nails over his back and shoulders, slamming so hard into the willing body the table moved a few inches.

“Pleasure,” he said again, breaking the chain of ravaging kisses, “Pleasure.”

Morvran reached down desperately to touch the release on the cock ring and Letho's consciousness clipped out of being as he came, explosively, endlessly, out of being.

When Letho fully came to the general was straightening his tunic. He was creased and crumpled around the edges but it barely showed against his ingrained respectability.

At the door, he turned back to Letho, hands locked behind his back, aloof again.

“Tomorrow you shall have your swords and your signs,” he said, “Do not disappoint me.”

No, Letho thought to himself, smiling darkly as he stretched the strains and tensions out of his muscles. He would not disappoint.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for sticking with the weirdness, hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
